The Last God Is Afraid of His Own Festival

How it begins

The god was hiding in the kiln.

Mara found him between an unfired bowl and a shelf of test tiles.

He had made himself small enough to fit, but not small enough to look dignified.

"Absolutely not," she said.

Oren lifted one gold eye.

"I haven't broken anything."

"You are in a kiln."

"It isn't lit."

"It will be."

"Not if I stay here."

Outside, the festival committee began carrying bunting across the square.

Oren flinched at the sound of the brass bell.

Mara set down her clay.

For twelve centuries, according to the town history, their god had welcomed the annual celebration.

The town history did not mention him wedging himself behind pottery.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Renewal."

"Most people are."

"This one has terms."

He crawled out slowly, gathering his long coat around him.

On the workbench stood forty ceremonial bowls. Mara had copied the traditional pattern from her teacher, who had copied it from hers.

A ring of small marks ran beneath each rim.

Oren touched one.

"Do you know what that says?"

"Blessing on the table."

"Not quite."

Mara looked at the mark.

She had carved it hundreds of times.

"What does it say?"

"He remains while we require him."

Outside, the bell rang again.

Oren closed his eyes.

"And the next line?"

"We require him while he remains."

Mara sat down.

For years she had thought the pattern was decorative.

Now she looked at the bowls as a person might look at a contract signed in a language nobody living had learned.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

The god's expression changed.

Not fear this time.

Shame.

"At first, I liked being needed."

Mara turned one bowl upside down.

The clay was still soft enough to alter.

"Then," she said, "we should read the rest before anybody sets the tables."